


The Boy on the Beach

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Childhood Memories, Drunken Confessions, M/M, Whiskey & Scotch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 19:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15395805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: From the prompt sentence: "Let's drink too much and say all the things we couldn't say sober."





	The Boy on the Beach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egmon73](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egmon73/gifts), [Black_Dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Dawn/gifts).



 

Mycroft stopped short of sighing into his pint, but only just. Sitting in a pub in the middle of the day nursing a drink was not, strictly speaking, something he ever did. There was no reason, just an odd desire not to return to his office quite yet. Anthea had dropped him off without question, but in reality, he’d picked a street at random, the sudden claustrophobia of the town car stifling him.

As Anthea had left, he’d felt a wave of relief at the freedom, and some slight panic at the same sensation. What was he to do, here in…wherever he was, at 2 o’clock in the afternoon?

He’d grasped at the pub as somewhere to go, something to do other than stand helplessly on a street corner. It had seemed to be the logical choice, and now here he sat, a fairly average local beer warming in front of him while he wondered what people did, these people who drank in pubs during the daylight hours.

Watching the bubbles slowly rise in his beer, Mycroft decided his melancholy was largely Sherlock’s fault. It was a fairly common conclusion; he and his brother had been blaming each other for life’s downs (though rarely the ups) for most of their lives now.

Mycroft struggled to convince himself that Sherlock’s unexpected contentedness with John Watson wasn’t irritating, but he failed. In truth (and only the absence of any soul who knew him would allow Mycroft to admit it, even to himself) Sherlock’s new attitude highlighted the distinct lack of intimacy in Mycroft’s life. He had a wealth of power, innumerable underlings who would jump when he spoke, and enough money to retire to any location of his choosing, but despite all the advantages of his life, one truth rang stark in his mind.

He was lonely.

He craved company. Not that of politicians, angling for a brush with the true power behind Downing Street; nor that of oily diplomats, hoping to coax Her Majesty’s representative into a concession of some kind in future negotiations.

Dimly, in the far reaches of his mind, Mycroft recalled…warmth. Soft summer sun on his face, blinding him to the features of the face hovering over his own. Gentle laughter joining his own, hands smoothing over his skin like a prayer. One week of one summer, so long ago it almost didn’t exist anymore.

They had been on holiday, the only family holiday Mycroft could remember, staying in a long forgotten town…somewhere. Mycroft left Sherlock to his bees, the dismissal of his company bearing the sting of the insects that held his brother’s attention so firmly.

Walking until he found the beach, Mycroft sat in the sand, uncertain how to spend the hours yawning in front of him. He’d fallen asleep, he thought. He had been alone, and the next minute there was a figure beside him.

A boy, more or less his own age, quiet and kind. Most of his features were lost, but Mycroft held tight to the memory of an easy smile and dark eyes, eyes that really looked at him, waiting patiently while he found the right words to answer questions.

They had talked – or rather, the astonishing boy had talked to him – for hours; Mycroft eventually loosened up, asking tentative questions, trying to hide his surprise at receiving answers without sarcasm or an accompanying sneer.

When the sun threatened to dip below the horizon, they stood by unspoken accord, agreeing to meet there the next day. He and the boy never exchanged names; it seemed unnecessary after their first conversation.

The next day, Mycroft had brought a small bag of food, hoping his presumption was not too forward. They shared his bounty, the sandwiches and fruit somehow an informal baptism over their fledgling friendship. The pattern continued for six precious days, Mycroft storing it as carefully as his ill-practiced mind had been able, refusing to acknowledge the short nature of his stay here.

He had worried they would have run out of things to say. Instead the conversation picked up as if it had never broken, and they once again talked until dusk. By the time they were biding each other farewell, a strange sensation had settled in Mycroft’s stomach. He was disappointed to see the figure fade into the dusk, wishing the earth would spin a little faster, just for this one interminable night.

Of course it had not, and the nights hence had also been as long.

Had Mycroft not been so preoccupied with his own unavoidable departure, he might have recognised the sadness in the other smile when they parted for the last time. It was that last day that was seared into his mind. He had not known it at the time, but the golden sun on that day was a farewell beacon, casting blond highlights into brunet hair; filling his irises even with closed eyes, though it could have been the tentative touch of lips to his that made such fireworks appear. The one kiss had rendered him speechless, and by the time Mycroft had opened his eyes, the boy was gone.

The following day Mycroft arrived at the beach at dawn, equally terrified and eager to see what the day would bring. He waited as the sun rose, paused at its zenith before falling slowly once again into the ocean. When the next day – and the next, and the next – brought nothing, Mycroft had no choice but to accept that with his family’s departure went his last hope for another wondrous day, or hour, or moment.

He’d returned one last time, slipping away as his father supervised the packing of their car, leaving his carefully written note tucked under the driftwood they’d used to illustrate points of argument. There was no way of knowing if the boy had read his note, or even returned at all, but it comforted his tormented soul to know the words were out there somewhere.

Of all these memories, rising like the bubbles in his beer, it was the easy closeness Mycroft missed the most. He had never been comfortable in his skin, but that short span of time had rendered his body irrelevant, giving him a glimpse of a life in which he could forget the gentle roll of his stomach, the roundness of his cheeks, the wobble of his thighs.

Those things were moot now, of course; but the sensation remained, reminding him constantly that his awkward self was neither attractive nor necessary other than to transport his mind. Despite this deep seated revulsion, Mycroft secretly dreamed of a vague someone that would be happy to lie with him in the sand, bodies pressed together, talking about nothing without censure or pause. A listening ear as much as a comforting hand.

“Mycroft?”

He closed his eyes at the sound of his name, not wanting to acknowledge his own presence here. In his mind he was still on the beach, not in this pub.

“Mycroft.”

No questioning tone here, and he could identify the voice, of course.

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector,” he said finally opening his eyes and turning to look at Gregory Lestrade, leaning easily on the bar beside him.

“I’d ask what you’re doing here in the middle of the afternoon but that would feel a bit hypocritical,” Greg said. He gestured to Mycroft’s obviously abandoned beer. “Can I get you something else?”

Mycroft shook his head. He looked for the bartender, grateful for his absence from their end of the bar. “I’m not sure there’s anything here I would appreciate, to be honest.”

He could feel Greg’s eyes on him and fought the blush, knowing it was futile, knowing his face was beetroot. He avoided the question for as long as possible, hoping his demenour was not as depressed as he felt. Before he could open his mouth to reply, Greg spoke again.

“I don’t want to pry, Mycroft, but if you’re here for the same reason as I am, there’s another option.”

Mycroft frowned, glancing over, allowing his mind to analyse the information he could see. Gregory was…unhappy. He looked tired and something else.

“We could always go somewhere quiet, drink too much and say all the things we could never say sober.”

Mycroft was aghast. He stared, mind working as he considered Greg’s proposal with more seriousness than he thought he would. The beer had little effect on his mental processes. He worried what he might reveal. Not state secrets or the like – goodness knew he was far too well trained for that. But personal details…hmm. Sentiment.

“Very well,” he found himself saying. “Did you have somewhere in mind?”

Greg blinked. Mycroft had the distinct impression he was surprised that Mycroft had said yes.

“Well, my place is close,” Greg said, “unless there’s somewhere else you’d be more comfortable.”

 From the amusement on his face Mycroft had the distinct impression Greg had never seen him consider a question so seriously before. Which might have been because he’d never _had_ to think so hard before. There was a rhythm to their professional interaction and even the more personal conversation held a level of reserve that made his responses come easily.

But not this. This felt…warmer. He felt different, more vulnerable and the speculative look in Greg’s eyes added to the almost surreal atmosphere.

“From a purely security perspective,” Mycroft said carefully, “my flat would be preferable.” His tone was very apologetic; he didn’t want to offend Greg. “I don’t mean to disparage your accommodation, of course.”

Greg snorted in amusement. “My security detail is my incredibly nosy neighbour and three deadbolts. I’d challenge you to get past her, she’s a terror.”

Mycroft smiled in acknowledgement of the comment. “I wouldn't dare. Shall I call a car for my flat, then?”

“Sounds like it,” Greg replied.

Mycroft sent a message, receiving confirmation the car would arrive in five minutes.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” Mycroft said. The bartender wandered past and Mycroft passed over his half full glass, murmuring an apology. The pub was mostly empty and Mycroft crossed mental fingers, hoping for the same situation in the men’s toilets. It was quiet, both stalls empty; he sagged with relief as he stared at himself in the mirror. What the hell was he doing? Agreeing to go somewhere private with Greg Lestrade, of all people, with the express purpose of drinking until he blurted out his heart’s secrets.

It was madness.

On the other hand, not only had Greg agreed to the situation but he had been the one to suggest it. There had been that flash of surprise at Mycroft’s acceptance, but still…he had not pulled out. Had given Mycroft the opportunity to select their location – another mark of his considerate nature.

Cool water brought Mycroft’s mind back into focus, pulling it away from fanciful notions of what the evening might now bring. If nothing else, it would be interesting to see how Greg conducted himself. He would be a gentleman, of course, but there might be a hint of something else. If there was ever an opportunity, this was it.

Not that he would do anything that would be considered forward.

+++

They sat in high-backed wingchairs, the Scotch of Greg’s choice in glasses in generous measures. The quiet sounds were almost a cliché; the rustle of fabric as one or the other of them shifted; rain on the window when the wind blew it sideways; a crackling fireplace. Only a quiet violin or piano piece was absent. Mycroft could not bring himself to enjoy either, the memories of his fraternal bond still pressing on him.

“This is good,” Greg said, sipping for the first time at this particular Scotch. Mycroft barely shifted his head – he was already looking at Greg anyway – but raised one eyebrow, unimpressed. Greg had made the same observation after each glass, and this fourth time was equally uninspiring.

“Of course it is,” Mycroft murmured, his standard response. The words were a little more slippery this time, the alcohol loosening his tongue; it meant he added, “I couldn’t ply you with cheap alcohol even if I wanted to.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose this time, the reaction a little slower, eyes soft and gentle. He didn’t say anything but his mouth twisted into a soft smile as he watched Mycroft. They sat in comfortable silence again as they had for much of the last hour and a half, occasionally sipping at their drinks. Mycroft had surrendered to the slow rhythm; they were hardly moving, yet he felt them drawing closer to something important. The inexorable forward motion should have alarmed him, but it didn’t; looking at Greg, calm and collected, brought him peace, too.

“Tell me something,” Greg said. “Something about you. A story, something that happened to you.”

“From when?” Mycroft asked.

“Anytime. Childhood. University, I don’t care.”

The story was close to the surface; he’d been thinking about it earlier. “When I was a boy we had one family holiday. My parents were immersed in each other, there were bee colonies to keep Sherlock occupied and I was not required anywhere in particular.”

The memory of the rest came in a rush, and Mycroft found himself sharing more of the details than he planned. He talked about the boy on the beach, hinted at his disappointment when he’d realised they would not see each other again. Only their kiss and the emotion surrounding it were kept in reserve. God knew what Greg would have made of that.

Greg listened quietly, allowing Mycroft’s halting narrative to continue until it petered out in the end. He nodded thoughtfully as silence fell.

“Thank you,” Greg murmured, “for sharing that with me.”

Mycroft did not reply. He could not decide if he regretted his reply.

“So,” Greg said conversationally, swirling his Scotch, “D’you think you’ve drunk enough to lower your inhibitions yet?”

The blunt question was both shocking and completely expected. Mycroft felt a frizz sputter through him at the words. He tilted his head, visibly assessing himself, keeping his eyes on Greg. “What did you think that story was?”

Greg smirked but his lips remained resolutely pressed together as he waited for Mycroft to answer the question.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said with questionable truthfulness. “Why don’t you ask me something and see what I say?”

The playful answer was bolder than he usually went; it in itself was a sign of his mellowed situation. Knowing his blinking was slow, Mycroft allowed his eyes to drift closed as Greg’s chuckle, rich and dark, swirled around him. Somehow it erased a lot of his loneliness from earlier, with each sip, each detail he noted subconsciously that reminded him he was not alone. Even if Greg went home soon, he would have the memory of this night, and the tantalising possibility of it happening again. Not that he would ever have the courage to instigate it, but he could cradle hope close to his chest.

“Hmmm, so that’s open season, then?” Greg asked. “I can ask you anything.”

“You can ask whatever you like,” Mycroft replied, “as you always have been able to. Whether I answer is the unknown quantity.”

“And whether than answer is complete,” Greg said, “or truthful, for that matter.”

“Why Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said with a smirk, “do you not think you could tell?”

“Mycroft, I hope you’re not disparaging my skill as a professional,” Greg said, emphasising his use of Mycroft’s earlier word.

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied. “I have the greatest respect for your professional capabilities, Greg.” He used the man’s name deliberately, not wanting to fall back into a less intimate place.

“Good,” Greg said, “because my professional skills are just about all I have, you know.” His eyes never left Mycroft, and the stark truth to his statement was evident.

Mycroft couldn’t help a short disbelieving snort at this frankly ridiculous assertion. As he searched Greg’s face for a trace of amusement, a sign he was joking, he regretted his reaction.

“You seriously believe that?” Mycroft asked, knowing his surprise was audible.

Greg shrugged. “I thought I was going to be asking you questions.”

Mycroft looked at him, wondering if he should press the issue. Instead he sat back, inclining his head in invitation. Greg’s expression shifted from apprehensive to speculative as he thought about his options.

“Other than my professional skill,” Greg said slowly, and Mycroft’s heart started to pound before the question was even finished, “what would you consider are my strengths?”

Mycroft bit his lip to make himself pause, but the words still tumbled out. “You are a remarkably intuitive person, Greg. You are kind and patient to people. While you don’t suffer fools, you are not needlessly cruel. You want to believe the best in people, and are disappointed when they let you down.” He faltered a little before the gentle swirl of smoky Scotch buoyed him on. “An objective assessment of your appearance...” he sighed, accepting the inevitable. “You must know how attractive you are, Greg. Any number of people have stopped to admire you, even in the dark at a crime scene.”

Resolutely, Mycroft sat back, already quaking at the repercussions of his careless words. Greg’s mouth was a little open, his eyes glazed as he listened to Mycroft.

“I’m more interested in your assessment,” Greg blurted.

“My assessment?” Mycroft repeated.

“Your assessment,” Greg repeated. “Of my appearance.”

Mycroft swallowed. This was the moment, the point they had been sailing gently towards through the afternoon. Vaguely, he lifted his glass, draining the Scotch, wincing as it burned his throat.

“To me, you are perfect, and my wasted heart will love you,” he drew in a shaky breath, “forever.”

Greg’s face was still for a long moment, and Mycroft wondered if he had heard the words.

“That’s…Mycroft, did you just quote a soppy romantic movie at me?”

Mycroft blinked, feeling his face flush. “I had not realised,” he said quietly. The words had just come to him. He didn’t even remember seeing the movie. Perhaps it was one of the atrocious Christmas movies his mother made them sit and watch every year?

“You did,” Greg said, and Mycroft hadn’t heard the words, but the tone caught his ear. It was complex: affectionate, tight with emotion, amused, warm. Mycroft struggled to separate the individual components, but the overall significance was clear, even in Mycroft’s gently sloshed state.

“You are…” the word escaped Mycroft, and he gaped helplessly at Greg.

“ _You_ ,” Greg countered, placing his glass on the table with exaggerated care before finishing, “you are not that sober, Mister Holmes.”

“Pot, kettle,” Mycroft managed. It would have been the perfect moment for Greg to stand up, to come closer; indeed he was leaning forward as though he was going to rise from his chair. He rubbed his hands together. _Nervous_.

“I want to tell you a story,” Greg said. The change of direction made Mycroft blink. Too courteous to refuse, he nodded, wondering why Greg was bringing this up now.

“When I was a boy, we had a family holiday. My sisters were off together all the time and my parents found friends in the next cottage.” He drew a shaking breath.

“I met someone. He was incredible,” Greg whispered. “We talked for hours, for days, but when my family was leaving I didn’t tell him.”

He was addressing the floor, still rubbing his hands together as he spoke. Gooseflesh was rising on the back of Mycroft’s neck as he listened to Greg tell his story, of walking down to the beach and finding a boy asleep on the sand, of talking with him, sharing food…

Mycroft couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or his own mind withdrawing him from the scene. He felt like he was floating, absent from the scene.

_Is he making fun of me?_

A small part of Mycroft’s mind, clinging to its logical abilities, noted Greg’s story was consistent with his own story from earlier. No extra information, only extrapolated in areas Mycroft wouldn’t have known about, carefully vague in places… _It couldn’t be…_

“What happened on the last day?” Mycroft asked. His voice was high and thin, as stressed as the rest of him. He needed to know, needed, needed…

“I kissed…him,” Greg replied, “but I left before he opened his eyes.”

Mycroft nodded. His eyes felt odd, and as he blinked he realised it was tears, blurring his vision, making his sinuses feel tight.

“Did you…ever go back?”

“No,” Greg said. “We left, and I never went back.” His face was full of regret.

“I left you a note,” Mycroft whispered. It was the first admission either had made that the memory from so long ago was a joint memory – one beach, one conversation.

“I didn’t…I’m sorry,” Greg replied. His voice was anguished, the emotion ringing true.

Mycroft closed his eyes, processing the new information. His eyelids were heavy with fatigue and too much Scotch too early in the day. He couldn’t fall asleep. Not here, in the middle of this conversation.

“Why did you speak to me?” Mycroft asked, opening his eyes.

Greg looked embarrassed. “At first?” he flushed. “I might have thought you were…I wanted to check if you were okay.”

“Okay,” Mycroft said. He vaguely felt like there was more there, but his mind was already overwhelmed without trying to analyse too much. “But then why, why would you stay?”

He was aware that he should be embarrassed by the question, of the interest he was revealing by even asking it. His desire to know was too great, fuelled by the alcohol and years of desperate wondering.

“You were amazing,” Greg said. “You are amazing. You could talk about anything. And you listened to me.” He laughed ruefully. “I talked your ear off that first day. Wanted you to like me.”

“You talked to me,” Mycroft said. “Nobody talked to me like that. Nobody looked at me. Not like you did.”

“Like what?”

“Like I mattered.”

Greg’s mouth opened, then closed, and Mycroft felt something shift. Greg stood unsteadily, using the furniture to make his way over to Mycroft. Instead of leaning down, he pulled Mycroft up, trying to steady him as he stumbled.

“I’m pretty sure imma fall asleep soon,” Greg said, clutching at Mycroft, “and I’d love to do it with you.”

Mycroft pulled back, looking into those eyes, searching for the ill-remembered boy from the beach. The memory wasn’t strong enough, too elusive to compare anything to, especially without a clear head.

But this…this was warm and comforting and all the things he remembered from so many summers ago, only it was here. Standing in his home, holding him, keeping him close.

Mycroft closed his eyes, gripping a little harder as he swayed, and let the memory go, releasing it into the archives of his mind vault.

He didn’t need it any more.

“Take me to bed,” he whispered to Greg, “so I can wake up with you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points if you can pick the movie Mycroft inadvertently quoted.


End file.
